Can we trust our country’s leadership? Do they have our best interests at heart?

 

If we look toward the future, what do we see? As our children grow, will they live in a world that cherishes them or one that controls them for the good of the privileged few? Focus on . . .

 

 

The Cowardly Lion

 

     I rolled over in bed in my dorm room, where I tried to take a nap before the start of afternoon classes. I didn’t have much success, however. So many thoughts ran through my mind, I couldn’t think straight. I stared up at the camera, embedded in the ceiling, which monitored my every move.

     My eyes shifted to the uncluttered desk to the left of the bed—no books, magazines, or newspapers in evidence. A wireless, three-inch mini-max computer, alone on the desk’s surface, projected a large screen image, suspended in mid-air. My name, Trey Olin, appeared at the top. The date, in huge, bold print—September 20, 2066—with the time flashing beneath it, jumped off the center of the screen.

     I propped myself up and peered out my second floor window. My view encompassed a major portion of this sprawling college facility. Quite impressive, I thought.

     Composed of four single-story classroom buildings, each with beautiful artwork embedded in the wall next to the front door; a small, but complete, all-electronic library; a huge combination gymnasium and field house, with retractable dome; a student union graced by a large platinum lion at the top of the steps of its magnificent glass-encased main entrance; three multi-level dormitories; and a rather massive theater, the campus mirrored the look of many of the mid-sized residential universities that existed in the United States up until 2056—the advent of the great revolution. At that time, drastic changes took place in our country and these campuses of the past disappeared from the academic landscape.

     Clarion College, completed two years before the nation’s rebellion, remained the only institution given the new government’s blessing and served as a physical symbol and reminder of the past—a past to which the country would not return.

     The sun’s rays illuminated the rolling hills surrounding this secluded campus, located less than forty miles from Washington, D.C. A new school year had begun—a time labeled by the academic leadership as “A Year of Glory and Ultimate Revelation.”   

     The college’s population paralleled that of most Ivy League schools of the mid-twentieth century, a time before women had been admitted to those hallowed halls of learning. Clarion’s enrollment consisted of two thousand young men of the highest intellectual, psychological, and physical caliber.   

     The ruling aristocracy boasted, “Only by God’s hand could such a special sanctuary of learning have been created.”

     No, I reflected. God’s hand had not touched this sacred campus, the home of a select body of privileged men. It was the work of . . .

     My concentration broke. My eyes flickered. A bright light coming from the direction of the student union took hold of me. I fixated on something I couldn’t make out. I could see it, yet I couldn’t see it. But how could that be? This thought confused and frightened me.

     The fall semester began three weeks ago. I was becoming acquainted with my professors, men who would open the doors of my mind to the wisdom and secrets necessary to become a future American leader. Yet I’d fallen into a deep sadness and couldn’t figure out why.

     As I struggled with the anxiety welling up within me, a piercing sound came through the mini-max’s speakers. It penetrated all the nerves in my body and delivered my complete attention to the voice that followed.

     “Young men of Clarion, please gather in the quad below, for afternoon classes are about to begin. Ready yourself to learn what no others before you have had the opportunity to experience. Prepare for the future, a future that holds extreme promise for you, for you are the chosen ones. You are the ‘Sons of Clarion.’”

     “What’s happening to me?” I screamed.

     “Be calm, my son. You are in my charge and I shall protect you,” the voice from the mini-max speakers again echoed through the room.

     “Oh my! I’m not alone. I’m never alone. What have I become?” I yelled.

     I’ve got to get a hold of myself. Had “They” heard my cries? But no response came from the mini-max, just silence—deafening silence.

     Then something took possession of both my mind and body. I couldn’t remember leaving the room. However, I soon found myself standing in the middle of the campus’s main quad, with the mini-max in the palm of my hand—one of 2,000 silent young men, all staring straight ahead. Controlled by a mysterious force, we would perform, as commanded.

     A shrill siren interrupted the tranquility. My head ached with a pain so intense I felt like I could vomit. But then, I felt happy, almost ecstatic.

     A voice came out of nowhere, “’Sons of Clarion’, go forth now and learn.”

     Stunned, I moved in robotic fashion with the others. We dispersed into four groups. Each marched in perfect precision across the rolling hills of the beautiful, well-manicured campus toward one of the four classroom buildings. As we advanced, I gazed at the institution’s pristine facilities. My eyes surveyed the massive gymnasium, a structure used for “training,” but not competition of any kind, for no opponents existed.

     Clarion College was different—exclusive. More than the only male college in the United States, it was the only college, of any kind, left in the country after the revolution.

     Although it stood as a reminder of the past, it also symbolized the future of a nation whose leadership refused to be burdened with teaching the young men and women who had stood toe-to-toe against the revolutionary forces. The very few chosen men—the brightest, strongest, most agile, most motivated—and, above all, those like me who maintained their silence during the overthrow of the government, would learn to become the country’s future leaders, those labeled “selectmen.”

     A brisk, cool wind slapped me across the face awakening the inner turmoil I should not have been experiencing in this “special” environment. From a distance, I saw the American Flag blowing in the breeze, free and unencumbered. I wished I felt free like the flag. I stopped for a moment and stared at it—something I shouldn’t have done.

     A raspy voice commanded, “Young man, please proceed with the group. Do not deviate from the path or your future might be at risk.”

     “What? Where are you? Who are you? What do you want from me?”

     “Please do as I say. Do not question my word.”

     So I did. I got back in step with the other “selectmen” and moved in the prescribed direction. 

     No fences surrounded this extraordinary compound—fences that might obscure the beauty of the grounds and lead outsiders to believe this institution of higher learning might not be what it appeared to be. Yes, no fences, but I couldn’t leave. I had no power, mental or physical, that would provide me with the ability to cross the invisible moat that separated the campus from the real world—the world beyond the nonexistent gates. I had to stay and serve.

     As “selectmen,” our training would allow us to lead from afar, safe from the bloody battles in which the nation engaged. Others, not so chosen, would be manipulated, like mechanical beings, by the likes of me, to do the country’s bidding. These “servants of the nation,” considered expendable, would be sacrificed for the good of the privileged aristocracy.

     I needed strength to face this world of privilege and segregation. Most of all, I needed the will to face myself, for I accepted my selection as one of the privileged—too arrogant to do otherwise. Tears welled up in my eyes.

     I would become a faceless controller, responsible for the deaths of millions. This overwhelmed me. Would my actions and those of my country go down in history as acts of strength or of weakness? Would I be considered a hero or a coward?

     Through my tears, I stared at the majestic monument standing at the top of the steps of the student union, right behind the flag now being whipped by the wind in an unmerciful fashion. The “Clarion Lion” exemplified strength, not just the strength of this prestigious campus, but also of our country. However, no matter how I rearranged the picture in my mind, I couldn’t help but feeling the once mighty king of the jungle had become nothing more then a “Cowardly Lion.”

 

 

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